family

Omen
The day my grandfather died was on the first month of the Gregorian new year two-thousand twenty-two, on the twenty-second day. I found out at 2 PM. Or pretty close, anyway.
By Itzel-Marine Gourmelon5 years ago in Fiction
Mama Said There'd Be Days Like This
She was screaming bloody murder, wailing and crying. Stomping around the house in a tantrum calling for me. I held my breath as she marched past the bureau I was hiding under. I had a soft white blanket over my head. I picked at the pilling fabric, curling each fray together into a fuzzball. The sun came through the window at a slant and illuminated my little cotton fuzzies, their silhouettes aglow like magic in my small fingers. This blanket was used, traveling from my Grandma’s house in Barnwell all the way out here, deep in the South Carolina woods. At least it felt like that for a little girl. Far and lonely. This blanket sat on my Grandma’s lap through the entire run of the ‘Days of our Lives’ and maybe before. My Grandpa gave it to my Mama when Grandma died last year. Now, here I sat, picking it apart enraged at my Grandma's daughter, weeping chaotically around me in this big ole empty house. The sound of my name being yelled was muffled now as she was three stories up in the finished attic: my de facto doctor’s office.
By Boo5 years ago in Fiction
The Hineruru
A little girl, no more than seven years of age, sat on the knees of her Kuia, her grandmother. Her head was tucked under her Kuia's chin, patiently waiting for her favourite part of the day, story time. A fire crackled, the smell of smoke drifted, and her Kuia hummed as she rocked her granddaughter. The combination of smells and sounds settled little Maia into a drowsy, satisfied mood.
By Rebecca Jane5 years ago in Fiction
Harbinger
He's gone. I can't believe dad is gone. A whole month without him, without his voice... What am I supposed to do? I should have called him that day, no- I should have gone to see him. Oh, and I never did finish that painting for him. Why did I have to put it off? Why did I-
By Rayne Laury5 years ago in Fiction
Screen-Shot
Swipe down, swipe over, click like, send. The high schooler in my salon chair has the freedom of the wings of an eagle. And she doesn’t even realize it.
By Makala Moore5 years ago in Fiction
Lewis. Runner-Up in Return of the Night Owl Challenge.
It was Mama’s illness that brought me back east. Mama’s illness and sister’s craziness that disrupted my 22-month streak of success. I’d still be in diapers if we measured success like we do the growth of babies and toddlers - or in training pants at least. My birthday present for my 31st year was an early morning phone call that pulled me reluctantly from a vivid dream that involved wolves and moonscapes and a lone owl in a desolate, charred tree. I was on a high ridge of smooth, white, circular-pocked stone. Along the edge popped up the head of a massive gray wolf with sapphire-yellow eyes and silver mane. He stared at me, then hopped up and started trotting to the east, silhouetted in the low glow of a crescent moon, followed by one, two, three - I counted nine wolves when a shriek pierced the night. I glanced to the west, and there was that owl in that leafless tree, a barn owl with no barn in sight. Eyes fixed on me, not thirty feet away. It swiveled its head toward the lupus, then back to me, then let out another piercing shriek before silently spreading its wings and launching into the night. In the dream, the owl was as big as the wolves, the night a silvery-blue studded with stars, the air warm and pleasant against my skin - like a soothing, loving hand. I watched the owl circle around the edge of the ridge, when my nerves jarred with yet another shriek and the entire scene dissolved like water poured on a chalk painting. I bolted upright in bed, and the shrill came again.
By Catherine Brooks5 years ago in Fiction
The Art of Painting A Memory. Runner-Up in Return of the Night Owl Challenge. Top Story - January 2022.
My uncle George’s voice is my favourite colour: a smooth velvet purple. Unfortunately, my voice was a grungy green for George, which he was always at pains to remind me if I talked too much.
By Sam5 years ago in Fiction
An Omen of Inspiration
I laid in bed for what felt like hours. My eyes remained shut though my mind swam with archetypal imagery. Tones of grey danced back and forth across the bleakness of my mind’s eye until I could no longer play along and headed downstairs. I removed the kettle from the hearth and sheepishly moved to my typewriter. Dust had settled on the peddles from weeks of my inability to even look in its direction, but somehow, tonight felt different.
By Christy Ann Clark5 years ago in Fiction
Grandma's Will
Everyone has secrets. It might be your mom, dad, best friend … or even your beloved Grandma. As the first-born grandchild, I came to know at an early age that I was Grandma’s favorite, even though – as I grew older and wiser - I would never say that to my siblings or cousins. Parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, the neighbors - all the baby boomer generation has this unspoken law that you are to love your children and grandchildren equally.
By Gail Allyson King5 years ago in Fiction
Wild Night
At least we had seen the deer, if only briefly before it had collided with my Mom’s fabled Mercury Sable. The owl, however, had come out of nowhere. Screeching into the beam of light thrown by the headlights and slapping against the windshield the next second.
By Abby Griffin5 years ago in Fiction
Finding Peace
She knew she had to get out. She had known for the past 6 months for certain, and many months before that the thought was hinting in her mind. But 6 months ago, there had not been a clear exit strategy. There had not been a clear next step. And so she waited.
By Alysia Love5 years ago in Fiction
Real Owl. Fake Life. Top Story - January 2022.
Madeleine slanted her head and let her fingers toy with the owl perched on her bedside table. To call it a toy would be an understatement. It was every inch a real owl, except it really wasn’t, but a fairly decent stand-in. She coughed.
By Elaine Gao5 years ago in Fiction